Goretober Drabbles
by LeoN WiNgsteiN
Summary: A series of short oneshots based on the goretober prompts. The prompts are listed as the names of the chapters. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, EXPLICIT VIOLENCE/GORE
1. Excessive GashesLacerations

Sherry stopped, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breathing for a brief moment, the darkness shrouding everything around her. She was closed in a small closet near the end of the hall. Judging by the mops and buckets and brooms, it was a janitor's closet. It smelled of dank old cleaning products, and of Sherry's own sweat. That was okay with her, though, because it drowned out, however slightly, the smell of blood.

Her hands were gripped tightly around the knife, which Claire had given her. She wasn't sure if she would have the courage to use it, or even if it would do much damage at all if she did use it, but she kept her fingers laced around the grip, finding comfort in its solidity and potential protection. Her breathing slowed a little, and she could hear the footsteps in the hallway outside of her little closet sanctuary.

She sunk back into the recesses of the closet, pressing herself against the wall. Her arm brushed against a broom or mop, something with a long handle, and before she could catch it, it fell forward and knocked against the door. She pressed a tiny hand to her mouth before she could let out a cry. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she could not hear the footsteps outside anymore. Silence.

She listened closely, hoping against hope that whatever was out there had continued on its way without bothering her. She lowered her hand, renewing a grip on the knife, and that was when she heard the footsteps again, this time coming louder and closer, louder and closer, toward her. Her fingers tightened on the knife even further, and when the door opened, she squeezed her eyes tight and slashed as hard as she could: one, two, three times—and she could feel it making its cuts deep into whatever its mark was.

A man's scream, and the warm splash of blood. Whatever it was that was attacking him backed off, and she opened her eyes. Her heartbeat stopped and instead of quickening, leapt to her throat. What she thought had been some sort of monster or zombie was neither at all, but a policeman, who now had a gash on his hand and two cross-cutting his face. Judging by the blood gushing from them, they weren't shallow, either. "Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry!"

The police officer held up the hand that wasn't bleeding to the girl, signaling her to come no further. He tugged past Sherry and found a rag on one of the shelves. He was holding a sleeve to his face, trying to stop the bleeding, but it wasn't doing much. He sniffed the rag and tied it around his hand, slowing the bleeding considerably. He picked up another rag, sniffed it, and dabbed at his cheek, where the cut may have even cut down to the bone.

"I'm Leon," he said. "I'm a—" He stopped for a minute, composed himself, and continued. "I'm a police officer here. I can—help you." He cringed as he continued to dab at his face with the rag, soaking up the blood. "What's your name?"

"Sherry," she replied timidly. "I'm sorry."

"You were scared," said Leon. "There's nothing I wouldn't have done were I you. Let's stick together." He held out his un-slashed hand, and Sherry looked at it for a moment before finally taking it and giving him a smile.


	2. Extra LimbsEyesEtc

The small vial seemed very fragile to Leon, and his heart pounded in his chest when he saw the woman twisting it, without a care, through her fingers. He held up his handgun, trained on her, but she made no indication that she even noticed it. It was frustrating, the way she spoke down to him, as if she weren't holding such a dangerous sample, and as if they weren't in a standoff. For a brief moment, he even hoped that he didn't have hair in his eyes. He didn't dare shake it away.

"Don't look so serious," Ada crooned, keeping her eyes trained on him as she twirled the vial. "You need to lighten up, take a vacation…"

"Every time I try, you seem to show up and start a biohazard." A smile tugged at Ada's lips for a tiny moment before she realized that he wasn't joking.

"Well, there's no reason to worry," she said. "We're ushering in a new age—beyond nuclear. And there's only one way for the world leaders to feel safe. _That's_ with some sort of bioweapon in their pockets." She paused, and when Leon didn't interject, she continued: "No one wants a bioweapon research program on their payroll, so they get what they need the old fashioned way."

"They just hired you."

"Exactly. And the only reason there is safety in the world is that all of the world leaders _know_ that all the _other_ leaders have a panic button. The United States has one. Russia, China, basically the whole security council at the UN—they're all in on it, this weird unspoken contract—"

The color had risen in Ada's cheeks, and Leon's grip tightened on his gun. He didn't like the way that she was getting worked up. Her fingers twisted the vial more vigorously, and she took a step toward Leon.

"Ada, not another step."

"You're not going to shoot me," said Ada. "Your beefed-up hero complex, obsessed with right and justice, wouldn't allow you to shoot someone who wasn't going to attack first."

The gun went off, and suddenly, all was silent. The vibrations of the bullet hung in the air. Ada's eyes stayed trained on Leon, for a moment, but his were concentrated on the small (but growing) dark spot in the center of her chest. "Oh," she said, the voice slipping desperately from her lips. The vial, which had been teetering on the edge of her index finger, was pulled into her fist before it could fall.

A gasp escaped her mouth, and her free hand went to her chest, splashing forward a bit of blood from the wound. Leon's arms went back to his sides, his gun no longer threatening her; there was no longer a reason to have his gun trained on her. She dropped down on one knee, her fist pressed against the ground to hold her steady as she wavered.

"I guess this sis how it would end," she coughed. She spat out some blood. "Appropriate." Her other hand went to the ground, so she wouldn't fall over. "And I think it's appropriate that this'd happen, too."

"What?" asked Leon. His mind was turning the gunshot over and over again, unsure of how he even did it, or how the circumstances led to this. Now, however, he saw her tight fist open up, and the shattered vial's pieces tinkle to the floor. Leon could see the small lacerations on her palms, and the shine of the fluid where it was glossing over the blood.

Leon pulled up his gun and trained it on her again. His breath caught in his throat, and he watched in horror as Ada carefully, on wobbling ankles, stood. Her grin was there, the grin that had tortured Leon's fantasies along with his nightmares for so long. Her eyes trained on him, and her gaze bore into him.

And then, there was more of it than just that pained, loving gaze. In her cheek, a slit opened, showing a small hollow underneath. Leon watched in horror as the opening filled itself with a twisting, glaring, seeking eye. Leon's heartbeat quickened, and another slit, above her right eyebrow, opened up, and another eye formed. It, too, twisted around, crazy in its socket, but then found Leon, and trained on him.

The eyes came faster now, sliding into thin slits on her face. Each and every one of them found their way to Leon, their pupils focusing on him. She was beginning to resemble the J'avo that Leon had encountered a few years back. All this, but her grin remained.

"Ada…" gasped Leon, refingering his gun, adjusting his grip, and watched as her body began to convulse. Her face remained, grotesque and many-eyed, and a chill shot through Leon. This was something he had been trying to avoid for so long, and here it was happening, brought on by his own actions. He realized that he hadn't been breathing, and forced himself to take a breath.

There was a bulging beneath her skin at her shoulders, pushing up against her shirt. Out of her left shoulder burst a malformed limb, thrusting, three jointed, and with two sharp points in a form of some sort of primitive hand. There was a cracking that sickened Leon's ears as the new bones formed and worked their way into alignment.

Another movement, from her lower stomach, and slowly growing from that came another, sturdier limb. Blood still surrounded her mouth and chest, where the bullet had hit her. The third leg pulled itself forward, and more bones cracked and snapped as Ada's body realigned itself on her macabre tripedal stance.

Her mouth opened, and her jaw dislocated, revealing not only one row of teeth in her grin, but three, running all the way around the inside of her mouth. A screech bellowed out of it, and she took a staggering step forward on her three legs. Leon tensed, and Ada's third arm shot out toward him, the eyes spattering over her face blinking in inconcordant rhythm. Leon dipped downward, tucking into a roll to his left. The new limb whipped over his head, barely missing him, and he kept his gun trained on her.

"Ada, I'm sorry—" Leon made eye contact with a few of her eyes, including those that he thought he could identify as the original ones. "But I have to."

Ada opened up her mouth and let out another screech, which was cut short when she choked on a bullet, her head snapping backward. Leon sent another two shots into her chest, and a last shot into one of her eyes as her neck recoiled. Her eyes all shot wide at once, making a head full of the whites of them. Only the two original eyes trained on Leon as Ada fell forward, let out a final gasp as she hit the ground, and died at the hands of Leon for the second time that day.

Leon let the gun fall out of his hand and fell to his knees. He reached a hand out to her body, but pulled it back. He let his hair fall over his face and, for the first time since before Raccoon City, he let the tears that welled up in his eyes fall down his face.


	3. Surgery

Day 3: Surgery

The girl lay on the table in front of him. He liked that. He liked the way that she looked while she slept. Maybe it was this place, his place, that calmed him, but he liked having her there, too. It felt right.

Her father had asked him to take care of her. He had said: "Irons, if anything happens to me, make sure that she stays safe." And that was just what Irons intended to do. He was going to keep Mayor Warren's daughter safe. It was the one thing he knew he could do, that he had to do, even with everything else going to hell in a hand basket around him.

His hand strayed to the metal cart next to him, fingers playing over the various instruments. They bounced off of each one until the one he was looking for, the _right_ one, was under his touch. He picked it up, a large, sharp scalpel, shining in the light from the operating lamps. He could see himself in the reflection on the blade. He could see her, as well. They looked nice together in this little snapshot.

She was wearing a white dress, and it was stained with red. The red—where had that come from? It was a blemish on her otherwise perfect body, an image of purity and goodness. He had to protect her.

A slice of the knife, and he was able to easily and quickly remove the dress, leaving the girl in her undergarments. There was still the offending red spot, ragged and stained, but the rest of her, her lovely pale skin, it was pure, and it was good. Irons smiled. He dragged the scalpel along her leg, in the same sort of motion she might have made while shaving them, simply running the blade softly against her skin.

Her hair lay, framing her face, on the operating table around her. Irons moved around the table to it and took some up in his hair, leaning in to inhale the air around it deeply. He closed his eyes and reveled in the scent. It smelt of her beauty, and also of fear (though that could be the room, it was safe for him but was it safe for others it was safe for him).

Irons moved back to her stomach, where the offending red spot mocked him, just above her half in-half out belly button. It shouldn't have been there. It didn't _belong_ there. It was just wrong—it went against her beauty, her purity.

It wasn't safe. If he allowed that red spot, the gaping, staring red spot, to be there, he wasn't keeping her safe (if anything happens to me, make sure that she stays safe)! He needed to keep her safe.

The scalpel in his hand traced the edge of the red spot, in a smooth circle. That was better. Better than the jagged lines (safe) and better than the red. It was pure, it was good.

The girl continued to sleep. Irons traced the circle, this time pressing harder on the scalpel as he traced. Blood welled up, pushing forth, spilling, spilling around his circle, his pure circle (unsafe) and ruining its goodness. He tried to shoo it away, slapping at it with his big hands, but the impurity grew larger (not safe not safe) and he knew that he needed to make it pure. The only way to make her safe, make her better, was to make her pure.

She slept as he pulled the scalpel up from the red spot, or was (safe?) it a hole?, to her breasts. He found himself staring at them as they moved as he cut, and he realized (pure? Impure.) that he shouldn't be looking—she was pure, looking made her not. He couldn't have them there—the blade cut through the middle of her bra, and it fell open.

His eyes caught her exposed breasts for a moment, and (UNPURE) pulled the scalpel back down, cutting up through the center of her chest, and just below her collar bones. He needed (safe?) to make her safe, make her pure, keep her (make sure that she stays safe) safe.

The scalpel clattered to the table, in a pool of red (impure, unsafe, bad, not right) and plunged his fingers into her chest, into the incision he had made. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he pulled backward on the ribcage (safe now yes safer) and pointed her breasts down to the sides of her, out of view. Some points from where the ribs were broken. Inside, the rest of her.

It was all red. This wasn't what was good at all this (unsafe) was not (UNSAFE) what he ( E) had meant to do, no, this was not keeping her safe at all! Irons pressed his hands over the organs, so that they weren't visible. The red pooled up around his fingers, and its coldness made him uneasy (impure) and he removed his hands quickly. Her heart was there. Her heart was not pure like the rest of her. It was red. It was impure. It was bad, no, much of her was red, much of her was bad, she was not safe, not safe…

Irons went to her head and stroked her hair. He brought a fistful to his face, pulling the body up off of the table so that he could smell her hair, smell the beauty (and some fear). It was metallic now, tinged with the scent of red, of the bad, of the unsafe. He opened his eyes and saw that her hair was streaked with the red, and his hands were streaked with the red, and (keep her safe, but she is not pure) everything was red. She was impure, and it was bad, and it was red.

Irons stumbled away from the operating table, looking down, shaking his head. His hands were red, tainted by her impure and her unsafe. He lurched to the side of the room, and looked at the papers on the table. Birkin's papers. He struck his hand down on one of them, and there was a red handprint when he removed his hand. It was bad, too, it was impure, it was bad. Next to the hand was an emblem, printed on the paper, in red and white, pure and impure.

Irons hurried back to the table, paper in hand, and traced the curve of the girl's body from her leg to her side, where the blood dripped down onto the table (unsafe; bad) and glanced at the emblem again. Umbrella. Back at (impure) the girl. She was red and white, pure and bad, and the emblem was the same. The bad, the pure, unsafe.

"Birkin," growled Irons. His hand crashed to the tray holding the tools, and he sifted through them, sending a bone saw to the floor, and a small set of knives twinkling after. There, in the black case (pure/impure/good/bad) was his prize. The case with the emblem. The Umbrella, (good? Bad?) was there and inside was Birkin's thing, the thing that was (both?) and the needle sparkled like the scalpel had. A (G?) tool.


End file.
